Sent to Work
by lkcrm94
Summary: Based on 'Hard Times'. What happened when Bitzer sent his mother to the workhouse? Short; one chapter.


**Author's notes: Wow, my first serious fanfic! And my first fanfic to go past the K rating (even it is only a K+, which I know some people may see as a bit harsh for a fanfic like this)**

**Anyway, let's cut to the chase: at the beginning of Book The Second of Charles Dickens' **_**Hard Times**_**, it mentions that Bitzer, one of the characters (he's the one who describes what a horse is at the beginning of Book The First), has inherited his late father's fortune, and then sent his mother to the workhouse. What a moron! He gets a job at the bank, and he and Mrs Sparsit (another character) think they both have the best, most important job in the world (they work together), when really they have a crap job of just sitting there and basically doing nothing. Even a bank-robber manages to get past them! Though I won't spoil any more for those who haven't read _Hard Times_.**

**This was originally a piece of homework for an English Literature class; we were asked to write our interpretation of what happened when Bitzer put his mother in the workhouse, and we had to write this scene in the style of Charles Dickens. It had to be roughly 500 words long, so I was forced to drastically edit it for handing in, as mine is, like, kinda over 1000. But here, I've uploaded the whole kit-and-caboodle, unedited for your reading pleasure! I tell you what though; writing in the Dickensian style was bloody tricky! And I'm still convinced I will never be able to mirror his writing style, although I did get some positive feedback from the teacher who set the work, so hooray!**

**All of the characters were created by Charles Dickens, though I have made up the personality of Bitzer's mother.**

* * *

A Winter's day in Coketown.

The town remained, as it has always done, like clockwork. As the cogs inside a clock or pocket watch rotate as time goes on, the Hands of Coketown trudged into the factories, the same thing they had done for as long as they could remember. The all-too-familiar serpents rose from the factory chimneys, intensifying the thick fog that mercilessly smothered Coketown like a heavy blanket since sunrise. Christmas had been but a few days gone, but there were no decorations or festivities lining the streets or houses; Christmas was simply the birth of Christ, and nothing else more. There was no snow; only the grey stone cobbles; and if any had fluttered to the ground, the remaining townspeople who had not ventured to the factories would have instantly rushed outside, carrying shovels to sweep the fresh snow away, in order to avoid their child throwing snowballs and making snow angels, as these things do not rise out from the snow according to Fact.

One of those who had not made the journey to the factory was Bitzer, and he was accompanied by an old woman. The Old Woman wore a blindfold, and Bitzer held her old hand as he carefully led her through the identical streets.

"This is most exciting, I must say," the Old Woman said eagerly. Although she was indeed blindfolded, she had a pleasant smile to her face, and if I could say without Fact interrupting, her smile had a gentle glow that seemed to wisp the fog away.

"We are here, Mother," said Bitzer, her son.

The Old Woman removed her blindfold and looked about, eager to find out where she was. The heavy blanket of fog she had seen when she had stepped out into the street, before placing the blindfold over her eyes, was still smothering Coketown as heavily as ever. They stood in a bare yard paved with concrete, once a light grey but now filthy. Grimy walls as tall as the houses of the Hands of Coketown surrounded this yard, seemingly going on for ever through the fog, with only a grim iron gateway looming over the yard as the only exit. The Woman's attention was brought to the bleak and sinister-looking building that towered over them through the fog. With its many rattling windows, its iron bars, and the sounds of cries from within, it felt even more bleak and sinister.

The Old Woman's face drained of blood, as if she had seen a ghost or some other sinister phantom. All she could do for a brief moment was gasp in horror. Eventually, she said: "What…is going on?"

A sigh from Bitzer. "Mother," he began, before sighing again, "this is where you shall be staying from now on."

"Here?" the Old Woman asked, staring in bewilderment at her son, and back to the building. "What is the meaning of this tomfoolery?"

"Mother…please, don't make this more difficult then what it is," Bitzer mumbled, without the slightest regret in his voice, only for the Old Woman to cut him short.

"You mean to tell me you intend to just…drop me in this wretched place and forget about me?" She spat out the words 'drop' and 'wretched' as if they were a bitter poison. "Of all the wicked deeds I have witnessed over the years, this is by far the most shocking," she continued. "My son, sending his own mother at a place such as this!"

Bitzer placed his hands on her shoulders, as if he thought she would shatter if she continued; but of course, people do not shatter from such an action. "It is difficult to explain, and I know you won't fully understand," he said slowly, "but I know this will do you some good."

"Do you not love me?" the Old Woman demanded. "I, who have helped your Father raise you up to be the perfect young man you are today? What would your Father say to this?"

"Father would approve of my actions," said Bitzer. "I believe _I_ was the one instructed to earn his fortune, and not you, if my memory is correct. Father would have done this too, sooner or later."

"So I am just to be swept away?" the Old Woman asked. "You view me only as a mere pawn on a chessboard."

Bitzer looked straight into his mother's eyes. "Mother, I do still love you, and you have always been so kind and caring to me, but I assure you, you will be taken in, and you will have an excellent time. There is plenty to do here, and you will never have a bored moment. I shall look after the family house, but I am not able to look after you."

"So you are prepared to sever connections with me?"

"Yes," said Bitzer, "but not altogether. I shall send some things to you, if I ever get the time."

"But why here? If you intend to place me where you please, why send me here? I've heard the most dreadful tales of this place. Could I not go elsewhere? I cannot stay here. Of all places! Please, anywhere but here! No! I'd rather die!"

"Please, Mother, you are embarrassing me," Bitzer returned selfishly.

Something inside the Old Woman shattered, and her eyes shimmered as tears began to form. "If you are going to leave me here," said she, with her words catching her throat, "then please, please give your mother a suitable goodbye."

The Old Woman held her feeble arms out, expecting her son to embrace her, as Telemachus had embraced his father Odysseus, as the old story goes. But Bitzer, having been educated under the regime of the practical Mr Thomas Gradgrind, knew only Fact, and couldn't comprehend such tales of civilisations past. He simply shot back a glare of graveness.

"No more silly games, Mother. I am no longer a child, and I do not care for Fancy," said he, and with that, he stepped briskly out of the iron gateway in such a serious manner, one would think he was fleeing the scene of a crime, while trying not to draw attention to himself.

The Old Lady remained where she stood for a brief moment, watching her son fade into the thick fog; and as she watched the iron gates of Coketown Workhouse clang shut, she wondered if her son's heart had turned to ice.

But of course, dear reader, the human heart is not made of ice, but muscle; and that is a Fact.

**

* * *

**

**Yeah, 'Fact' is mentioned a lot (and I mean _a lot_****) in the novel. Dickens wrote **_**Hard Times**_** as a way of criticising the utilitarianism movement, which was increasing rapidly in the early Victorian years. Odysseus and Telemachus – the two men who are referenced near the end – are both characters from **_**The Odyssey**_**, though you would honestly have to be an idiot to not know that.**

**And if you notice, you'll see I've uploaded this on Valentine's Day for intended irony. Ah, nothing like a bit of gloom on Valentine's Day.**


End file.
